


Bedtime Stories

by Writegirl



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms, The Hulk - Fandom
Genre: Altered Mental States, Child Abuse, Child's Point of View, Childhood, Domestic Violence, Gen, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Runaway, Triggers, really not joking about this, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writegirl/pseuds/Writegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some stories aren't meant for children, even when that's who they are about.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Stop.” He knocked the arrow, aiming low. <b>You never aim at anyone,</b> that was Buck’s first rule. <b>Not unless you mean to shoot them.</b></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruce - Flashing Lights

**Author's Note:**

> These stories are cobbled together from the character's backstories in the movies as well as the comics. They are an attempt to write about how they became they people we saw in The Avengers, starting with their earliest memories. They will contain graphic child abuse, sexual/mental abuse, mental illness, and psychological conditioning. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS and pay attention to them.

                Once upon a time there was a little boy named Bruce and his best friend, Hulk. Hulk was the biggest, the strongest. There was nothing Hulk couldn’t do. When bad things happened at home, it was Hulk that saw them. Bruce would go to sleep when Mommy started crying, when Daddy started drinking, and when he woke up Mommy would have bruises and things would be broken. 

Most times it was Bruce’s fault. He was too smart, that’s what Daddy said before he got angry. Bruce knew all fifty states and their capitals. He could multiply numbers in his head faster than his teacher. Once he was sitting playing in Daddy’s study, watching as he wrote down numbers and symbols on the chalkboard. He looked up and saw the numbers weren’t right: there should be a four instead of a five. 

When he told Daddy he got angry. 

Most times when Bruce woke up he had bruises: long, evenly spaced runners on his biceps, or thicker, blotchy ones on his back and legs. Once, he woke up in the hospital with a cast on his arm. He’d fallen off the roof, Mommy told the doctors. He had followed Daddy up the ladder when he was hanging Christmas lights and no one knew until he was already falling. Hulk never told him what happened, and Bruce never asked. Hulk said he was there to protect him, to keep the hurt away, and that’s what he did. 

Bruce was five when Mommy told him they were going away. He’d just got back from school, his last test with its gold star folded neatly in his backpack. Mommy would give him a candy when he brought them home, and then hide them so Daddy wouldn’t get mad. He asked if Daddy was coming and she knelt in front of him, running a hand through his hair.

“No, baby.” She sniffed and her eyes were shiny and wet. “Daddy isn’t coming. We’re going to visit my sister Cheryl in Montana. You know where Montana is, don’t you?”

Bruce put a hand next to her face. “Idaho,” he said solemnly. “Wyoming, South Dakota, North Dakota,” he moved his hands counter clockwise as he named each state, and then put both hands over her eyes. “Montana!”

Mommy smiled then, and he frowned at the way the corner of her mouth was purpled and raised. “Good, Bruce. Now I want you to go and pack some clothes. Can you do that for me? Just take things you need, and your warmer clothes.”

He nodded and went to his room. She told him to only take things he needed, so his microscope wouldn’t be able to come, or his rock collection. He’d ask about getting another erector set when they got to Auntie Cheryl’s house. He pulled his suitcase from under his bed and started adding clothes. Pants first, because that’s how he’d seen Mommy packing the last time they moved. Shirts followed then underclothes and socks. He laid his thickest sweaters over the whole and closed the suitcase without trouble.  He thought hard for a moment, then picked up his stuffed dinosaur and headed out.

He was dragging his suitcase into the living room when Mommy rushed out of her room, two bags on her shoulders and one in her hands. She was scared, he knew that, but he didn’t know why. “We’re going now,” she told him. She pulled off the ring she always wore and left it on the kitchen table.

It was hot outside. New Mexico was a desert, Mrs. Yates told them weeks ago. They had to be careful not to play too hard and forget to drink water or they’d pass out like Sandra had the week before. Mommy wasn’t worried about that. She was pushing the bags into the back of the car and looking up and down the street. Bruce put his next to her leg and climbed into the backseat, buckling his seatbelt, Ralph on his lap. He was just settling when the car jerked forward with a bang. Mommy screamed, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up to see out the back window.

Daddy’s car was in the driveway, right up against Mommy’s. He looked around, and saw Mommy on the sidewalk, hands trying to protect her face while Daddy hit her.

Bruce climbed out of the car, dinosaur in hand. Daddy was using bad words, words that had gotten him in trouble when he used them in school. When Mommy fell and Daddy kicked her he ran, slamming into Daddy’s leg and knocking him back. He’d seen Mommy do it sometimes when he was in trouble and he was getting what he deserved.  

Bruce woke up when something bright shined in his eyes. A man was kneeling in front of him, moving the light back and forth in his face, so he grabbed at it, pushing it away. It tasted like someone had stuffed his mouth full of pennies, and his head hurt.

“Hey there, little guy,” the man said with a tight smile.

There were lights, everywhere. Red and blue and white, flashing against the man’s face, glinting (his new word of the week, glint: to give off reflection in brilliant flashes) off Mommy and Daddy’s cars. He knew what those lights meant. The last time they were at Auntie Cheryl’s and Mommy and Daddy got into a fight they’d come. His cousin Bradley had kept him in the bedroom that time, so he hadn’t been able to see them up close.

The man put a hand on his shoulder, frowning when he tried to shy away. “I need you to stay here for a second,” he said. “I need to go tell someone you’re okay.”

“Okay.”

Bruce stayed where he was, feet hanging in the air. He peeked around the edge of the truck he was sitting on. There were people everywhere: police men, firemen, the man in white who went to go talk to a man in a suit standing over a sheet on the ground. He couldn’t see Ralph. He couldn’t see Mommy, or Daddy.

_Hulk?_  He called in his Inside Voice. 

Hulk grumbled in the back of his mind. 

_What happened?_ He asked. He never asked, and Hulk never answered. So he was surprised when the deep voice responded. 

**_Bad Man gone._ **

_Daddy?_

**_Other people took Bad Man away._ **

Bruce looked around. _Where’s Mommy?_

“Bruce? Hey? You with me?”

He looked up. The man in the suit and the man in white were both staring at him, and he hated being stared at. The other kids in class stared at him when he turned his tests in first, when he raised his hand and always had the right answer. He could feel himself blushing and he clenched his fists. He wanted Hulk to come back so they wouldn’t stare at him.

The men were talking again, glancing at him while they discussed taking him to “A-general.” Finally, the man in the suit called a police man over. “This is Officer Barnett,” he said. “He’s going to take you to the police station.”

Officer Barnett was tall, taller than Daddy, but he crouched down so he could look Bruce in the eye. “My name’s really James,” he said with a smile. “Your name’s Bruce, right?”

He nodded. Daddy always said he was supposed to be seen, not heard. 

“Well, Bruce. My car’s over there.” He gestured to a group of white and black cars, each with flashing lights. “You think you can walk, or you need me to carry you?”

Bruce held up his arms and Officer Barnett picked him up. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said as they walked away, running a hand up and down his back.


	2. Natasha - St. Petersburg

                Natalia always wanted to be a ballerina.

                Her mother had been a dancer before she was born, a member of the chorus for a company that only performed in Tsaritsyn. Once, many years ago they were invited to dance for the Czar and his wife. While tucking her into bed Mother would tell her tales of St. Petersburg: the wonders of the royal palaces, the cathedrals with domes that seemed to hold up the sky and lights, everywhere lights. She would say these things in whispers, voice almost lost in the quiet of the night. After the performance they met the Czarina herself, bedecked in shining cloth and jewels, and were each given a silver coin to commemorate the event. They were a far cry from the factories and docks of their home, where black smoke clung to the rooftops and the river smells crept in after dark. “But one cannot live in dreams, Natya,” Mother would always say at the end. “Some things are not meant to last forever.”

                The coin spent most of its time buried beneath the floorboards of their small house, wrapped in thin pieces of burlap. When Natalia was six Mother dug the coin up one night while her father was at work, dropping the small weight into her daughter’s palm. She turned the circle in the lamplight as her mother ran a brush through her curls, and imagined dancing on a stage for kings and queens while her parents clapped. Sometimes when it was quiet and they were alone Mother would dance through their small home, teaching her daughter how to move like water, smooth and graceful. During the day, while she was at school Mother worked in the merchant’s houses, scrubbing floors. But at night she would remember what it was to be young and would take her daughter with her in those dreams.

                Most nights Father was away, working on the docks unloading cargo from all over Russia. He would bring home trinkets when he could: a thin chain of silver links for his wife, a bowl of painted porcelain for his daughter. When she was just slipping off to school in the morning he would be sitting at the table, half-asleep as Mother poured him a bowl of soup. 

                “You must learn, ‘Talia,” he would say in the mornings, beard still flecked with melting frost. “Learn, so that you do not have to scrub floors or work your life away.” 

                “Yes, Papa,” was her constant reply.

 

                She was eight when the fire started.

                It was almost Christmas, and snow was falling heavy outside. She remembered Papa coming home early, just before she was put to bed. He was smiling, and caught Mother up in his arms and spun her around the room, arms full of packages. 

                “Open! Open!” he said, piling the white-wrapped bundles on the table. 

                There was a bolt of silk, cold and green in the firelight; thicker than her arm and taller than she was. Another package held cuts of red meat blanketed with herbs, and still another held a pair of shoes, just a few sizes too big for her, but black and gleaming. Mother smiled as they were revealed but she frowned as she ran her hands over the silk. Later that night, she woke when she heard murmurs through the walls. Mother and Father were talking, and she knew she wasn’t supposed to be listening. She burrowed further under her blankets, wrapping her arms around the silk poppet her mother made her.

                When the man came she was helping to make candy, pouring syrup onto the fresh snow in circles and ribbons. He told her how pretty her doll was, darting a hand out to brush her hair out of her face. Before she could respond Mother was shooing her back inside, feet trampling the newly made candy as she told him to leave. Natalia watched from the window as he walked away, warm bowl clutched in her hands. 

                “What did he want?” She asked when Mother came back in.

                Her mother cupped her cheeks with cold hands. “He was a bad man,” she said, looking her daughter in the eye. “If you see him again, run to me, or find your Papa. Do you understand, Natalia?”

                She didn’t, but she nodded. “Yes.”

That night Papa didn’t come home. When she woke up Mother was staring out the window, lips red and raw. Natalia went to the stove and poured herself a bowl of oats and milk, but Mother didn’t notice. For the rest of the day she played with her poppet and waited for Papa to come. Tomorrow was Christmas, and she wanted to sing him the song she learned about the seasons. After dinner Mother tucked her in and shushed her questions. “He will be here tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t ask more.”

            She dreamed Papa was sailing away on one of the riverboats, face sad and beard heavy with frost. She yelled, running down the docks, but her feet sank into the wood. By the time she reached the end of the dock the ship was too far away, shrinking on the horizon.

            The sound of breaking glass woke her.

            Natalia sat up in bed when Mother came through the door, closing and locking it behind her. “Up! Up!” she whispered, pulling a coat out of the closet.

            Her feet were shoved into her new shoes, her coat wrapped around her, before she was fully awake. Mother moved the carpet and lifted the floorboards as the yelling got worse. “Here,” she said, when there was a space big enough for her to slip through. “Don’t make a sound.”

            Natalia slid into the space, cold ground scrapping her knees. The floorboards were replaced, the carpet cutting off the last bit of light. She waited there, doll in her arms. There was more yelling, breaking, and she thought about the bowl covered in blue flowers that Papa gave her last Christmas. Footsteps rang over her head and she ducked down as far as she could, trying not to breathe.

            Finally, there was silence.

            She lay there, wondering when Mother would come get her, when she noticed the heat. There was light coming through the floorboards, too much light and too much heat. Smoke drifted into her hiding place and she started coughing, using the light to find her way under the floorboards. She was burning, eyes stinging and lungs refusing to fill, when she found the outer wall and climbed through a hole in the bricks. The last thing she remembered was something grabbing her arms and pulling her into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number of chapters has gone up, since this story is starting to run away with itself. I had planned on three chapters, with Natasha, Bruce, and Clint each getting a chapter. Now it looks like each of them will be getting two chapters. one from early childhood and another from a few years later.
> 
> According to wikipedia, Natalia Alianova Romanova is Natasha's real name, so I went with that here.


	3. Clint - Saint Jerome

            Clint was seven the first time he saw a dead body.

            It wasn’t anyone he knew, just a man who had wandered onto the orphanage grounds, tucked himself into the tool shed, and died in the night. The man was on his back, mouth open to reveal yellow teeth and a swollen, black tongue, skin blue-white. Clint didn’t know the man was dead, not at first. He was supposed to be getting Sister Kelly the shovels so they could help spread salt on the steps. It wasn't until he got closer and saw the man’s eyes that he knew.

            Everything happened fast after that. Sister Kelly screamed his name, and when he didn’t move she ran to him, slapping one weathered hand over his eyes and pulling him back. He was tossed into the crowd with the other boys his age and shuffled into the main building. The police came and he watched from a window as they huddled outside the shed, mist rising around them as they spoke to Sister Kelly and Father Michael. After what felt like hours men in white stuffed him into a black bag and carried him away.

            That night he dreamed of the man. They were in the rectory, sitting across from each other. The man tried to talk, but his tongue was too swollen. He leaned forwards, ice cracking away from his face and taking chunks of skin with it. When he told Sister Margaret the next day after breakfast she told him not to listen, that dead men had nothing good to say to little boys. Barney called him crazy and chased him around the playground until Father Kaffey separated them. For the rest of the week Clint tried to do what Sister Margaret said. When he ran the man chased him, when he put his hands over his ear he pulled them away. Sometimes he was just stuck staring at the doors to the shed, the only thing he could see in the darkness.  The man was there, always there, behind his eyes.

            When he stopped sleeping no one noticed.

            Clint was good. He was the first in bed at lights out and the first one up in the morning, bed made and waiting. The Sisters patted his head, told him he was being a good boy. If he nodded off in class there was always a ruler or a sharp hand to wake him. During Mass he would stare at the cross, imagining Jesus would protect him. But Jesus didn’t sleep with him and the rest of the boys.  He was on his cross; suffering for their sins like Father Michael reminded them. When Clint nodded off the doors to the chapel were locked tight, the handles burning cold.

                The first time he fell off the jungle gym during recess the Sisters scolded him to be more careful and sent him on his way. When he fell again and cut open his arm from wrist to elbow they sent him to the hospital. He got twenty-two stitches and had to spend the night. When the nurses came to check on him the first time he was awake. The second time she asked him if he was afraid and he said no. The third time she checked his eyes with a small light and called another nurse, both of them talking outside his door, peeking in to see if he was awake. The next morning the doctor checked his arm and sent him for more tests. In the afternoon a man in a brown suit came and sat next to his bed and asked him if he was tired. 

                “No,” Clint said, fingers picking at a scab on his knuckles.

                The doctor cocked his head. “You’ve been awake for at least twenty hours." He glanced down at the papers in his lap then back to Clint. "Sure you're not even a _little_ sleepy?"

                Clint lifted his shoulders. 

                When the doctor asked him why he didn’t want to sleep he turned away.

                The doctor leaned back in his chair. “The Sisters at the orphanage said you saw something bad a week ago,” he said gently.

                “I’m not supposed to talk to him.”

                “Talk to who?”

 Clint told. He told about the man and his dreams, about Sister Margaret’s warning and Jesus and how cold he always was. About Barney calling him crazy and how he didn’t mean to fall; he thought there was another rung when there wasn’t and when he reached for it there was nothing there. He didn’t realize he was crying until the doctor handed him a tissue.

                “Am I in trouble?”

                The doctor shook his head. “No, Clint. You’re not in trouble.”

                But when he went back to the orphanage, it was different.

                There were no more rulers in class, no sharp smacks to wake him. He slept, and he dreamed, and when he woke up shouting everyone would stare at him. He wasn’t allowed to play during recess. He had to stay in his bed with the curtains drawn and sometimes Barney would sit with him and tell him to stop being a baby. It was just dreams, and dreams couldn't hurt you, everyone knew that. After dinner they gave him warm milk even though he hated it. He jumped whenever someone touched him and once fell out of his desk kicking and screaming when Father Huey woke him as class ended. Sister Margaret gave him a medal of Saint Jerome, because he was supposed to protect abandoned children and orphans. During recess Clint would run his fingers over the little man with his book, eyes as wide as he could make them. _Pray for us,_ he chanted. _Pray for us. Pray for us._

                 After two weeks Father Michael called him and Barney into his office for the first time since they were brought to the orphange by the police. Clint kept his eyes down as Father Michael explained that he had to go away. He was disturbing the other children in their studies. The orphanage wasn’t meant to deal with sick children, just those that needed to find new families. There was a hospital in Sioux City that specialized in helping children with his type of problem. Barney would have to stay at St. Beth’s, but they could visit every other month if they were both very good. It was no one’s fault, Father Michael said with his sad brown eyes, it was just how things had to be. 

                That night Clint made himself fall asleep. He could be good; show them that he wasn’t sick, that they didn’t have to take him away. The man couldn’t hurt him because St. Jerome was there to protect him. He woke up to a wet bed, Stanley Jones shaking him and yelling for him to wake up. He spent the rest of the night sitting with Sister Mary Francis, listening to her knitting needles as they clanked together. 

                That Saturday was community service day. The Sisters would line them up and march them onto the bus to go to the community garden, where they would spend the day weeding and planting. Since it was winter they were supposed to be preparing the plots for the spring planting. Most of the time they had snowball fights while the Sisters looked on over cups of coffee. Someone had found a football when they arrived, so they started playing; chasing each other through the drifts.

                “Come on,” Barney said, pulling Clint away from the group.

                “Where we going?” Clint asked as he followed Barney through the collection of low buildings.

                Barney kneeled down. “It’s an adventure, Clint,” he said. 

                Clint stayed behind his brother as he looked around every building before running through them. They reached a main street crowded with adults and he flinched back into an alley.

                “Come on,” Barney said. 

                Clint shook his head. 

                “You’re leaving Monday,” his brother hissed at him. “They’re taking you to the loony bin. You want that?”

                “No.”

                “Then come on.” Barney pulled him into the crowd.


	4. Natasha - Twelve

              Some nights number Twelve dreamed of another place.

             It was small, but warm. There were no recruits there, no Instructors; only wood and warmth and sweet smells. The windows revealed different seasons: winter whited out some, while summer bloomed green and bright in others. There was laughter, joy, and bitter, biting pain. When she woke from these dreams Twelve felt…wrong, like something had been pulled out of her and put back sideways.

             There was no wood in the barracks, no warmth but what little could be found beneath thin blankets. They weren’t good enough for warmth or comfort. Warmth made you weak, and the strong needed no comfort. The Red Room was designed to make them strong: stronger than their enemies. Any who were not of the Room, who were not of Mother Russia, were enemies. Only those who were worthy, who pleased the Instructors, were treated differently.

             Days were spent drilling: weapons, combat, and tactics took up the morning, followed by thick soup or bread and water for those on Restriction. Afternoons were filled with elocution and language arts. Dinner was whatever was left from the afternoon. Evenings were personal study, chosen to play to a recruit’s specific strength. She was flexible and light on her feet so Instructor Polnova would drill her in gymnastics and dance, muscles already stretched from combat training pushed to the limit. She was to be a tool for Mother Russia, Instructor Polnova would say, counting out beats with a heavy staff. She was to be what was needed, and there would be times grace was needed instead of blood.

             The first time Twelve cracked a nail to the quick and stumbled while running through fouette turns she spent the remaining hour on pointe. When she could hold it no longer she was strapped until she took position again. When Instructor Polnova called time she had broken form four times, her back and legs burning from both the blows and the strain of holding the position for so long. After her session she was sent to the infirmary. The nail was removed, and she returned to the barracks.

             That night she dreamed of a black haired woman dressed in flames dancing through a room on fire. Where her feet touched new flames sprouted vermillion and gold. She smiled as she burned, one pale hand reaching out to Twelve before darting away.

             Some had friends in the barracks, but not her. Secrets were precious, and speaking to her bunkmates could mean losing that small power. She herself would listen, breath quiet and even as the others whispered in the night, or tapped out complex codes she fought to memorize. She learned that Twenty was afraid of spiders; Four and Seven slipped food into the barracks despite strict orders not to, hiding bread in the hollow of their bedposts. Thirteen deliberately tripped others so he would avoid being strapped for his own failings, or for those of Twenty Eight, and then pretended it was an accident. She hoarded these things, tucked them away until she was on Restriction and she needed food or a distraction. 

             When the Instructors declared Twelve ready for preliminary operations she was entering puberty. As a rule all recruits were trained about the human body; anatomy and physiology were essential to their training. To know how a target would respond it was necessary to know how the body responded in general. She was taken from Barrack One and placed in Barrack Two with the older recruits. Eighteen, blonde with a scar running from her chin to her throat, was assigned to introduce her to Secondary Courses.

              She learned about men, about their appetites and what would be expected of her in the field in regard to their sexuality. The classes were clinical, taught by _chatnyj uchitelja_ only.  Instructors who attempted to fraternize with recruits were to be immediately reported, Eighteen stressed. Only the special teachers were allowed to instruct in the arts of the body. They showed her, slowly at first, what her body was capable of. How to separate herself from fleeting pleasure and see the lie in the closeness it engendered. More important, she was taught how to turn this on others, the ways in which the mind could be twisted to her advantage. “You will be beautiful,” Instructor Sirilekev told her, the first compliment she received that has nothing to do with her aim or the force of her blows, “And beauty is a two-fold weapon. It can disarm, and it can poison.” For the first time she could remember her hair was allowed to grow beyond the close-cropped cap she had always known; a frightening collection of blood-red wisps that curled around her ears.

              It was summer when they were called into the central courtyard. Seven of her previous bunkmates had graduated into Secondary Courses, and they lined up before Comrade Grilinko in the main yard. They should be proud, he told them. The others of their group had failed to advance, and failure had only one consequence. As he spoke she darted her eyes along the line. Seven, out of twenty six: two other girls and four boys.

              At the end of his speech Comrade Grilinko gestured. Seven men were dragged into the yard and set in front of them. Their clothes were identical, torn and so dirty the original color could have been anything from white to dark grey. They kneeled, shivering in the warm sunlight.

              “These men have betrayed their country. Their spirit,” Grilinko said, hands folded behind his back. “They are traitors who would ask for mercy.”

              Twelve tensed at the sound of shifting metal. She was handed a pistol by Instructor Opalev, the safety off and a round already chambered.

              Grilinko turned to face them. “Show them the mercy of the Red Room.”

              No one moved.

              _You must learn,_ the words drifted through her from some place safe and warm. _You must learn._

              _Yes,_ she replied. There was only one mercy of the Red Room, one gift it had to give.

              Twelve stepped forward and pulled the trigger.

              There was a moment, when she put the gun to the man’s forehead, where he looked up at her. There was horror in his eyes, a horror that she couldn’t place. Then he was falling backwards, the bullet shattering the back of his head. Around her the others followed her example. In seconds the men were dead, the sound of gunfire echoing off the tall concrete walls. She safetied the weapon, handed it to the waiting Instructor, and returned to attention. Wet warmth trickled down her face, traitor’s blood, but she left it there. As they were marched back into the barracks to prepare for afternoon lessons she felt eyes on her and looked up. Above on the wall a man stood, watching her.

 

 

              “Do you know why you’re here?”

              Twelve didn’t respond. It was better to keep silent than to reveal a lack of knowledge. 

              She had been woken in the night and escorted to a part of the facility she had never seen. The floors had thick carpet instead of tile or cement, the walls painted in cream. The air was cooler than that outside, dryer. Cushioned chairs sat at odd intervals along the walls. The room she was taken to was brightly lit, brighter than the surrounding halls. A man sat at the desk, hands folded on top of a file folder. The Instructor told her to remain at attention, and she did so, using only her eyes to take in her surroundings.

              The room’s occupant wore a plain black shirt and trousers. There was so insignia, no evidence of rank. His brown hair was longer than that worn by the Instructors or guards, perfectly styled and neat despite its length. Something about him teased her memory as she tried to place him, then it hit her bright and sharp. The man watching the executions. 

              He shrugged at her lack of response. “The others who run this facility might favor mindless drones,” he said, standing slowly. “Following orders is expected, but there is more to life than that.” He came around the desk as he spoke, until he was standing in front of her. “Following orders can get you killed.”

              He raised his hand, telegraphing every movement. _Take it,_ she thought. She had taken blows from every Instructor she had ever known, some harder than others, but that was expected. Shying away or fighting back only meant more punishment. As the hand descended she relaxed, experience telling her than tensing would only make the pain worse.

              When her hand came up, blocking the slap, she couldn’t tell who was more surprised. Fear clogged her throat and she stepped back, prepared to receive punishment for failing to maintain attention. Instead of striking her he turned away with a chuckle.

              “You are the first in a long time to do that,” he said, facing the wall. “Most of your classmates would have taken the blow and asked for another, if I let them.” He turned back to her, eyes curious. “Why didn’t you?”

              “You told me not to.”

              “Really?”

              His tone was mocking, but she continued. “’Orders can get you killed’, implying that some must be broken.”

              “And who decides which rules are to be followed?”

              Twelve blinked. All rules were to be followed, it was central to her existence. The Red Room wanted soldiers; those who could not do as they were told were useless. Worse, they created problems that could ruin an entire unit.

              The man sighed. “I had hoped…” he said, pressing a button on his desk.

              The door opened. She was being taken away. Something vital was slipping through her fingers, she could sense it.

              “The one following,” she said when the guard came up behind her.

              He waved the guard away. When the door closed he went to sit down. “Flexibility in thought, in action, is what makes you valuable,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. “A soldier capable of doing nothing but following the orders of an old man in a room a thousand miles away is a dead soldier.” His eyes went to hers. “I have no need of dead soldiers.”

              “I don’t plan on dying.”

              She watched as he removed a single sheet of paper from the file, placed it in another, unmarked one, and slipped it into a briefcase. The first folder he thumbed through briefly. She caught a glimpse of a picture of her, hair longer than she could ever recall it being, and another of a burnt ruin. _Secrets,_ she thought. That folder contained _her_ secrets, the things it hurt too much to think about.

              Satisfied, he picked up the folder and pulled out a lighter. 

              “You’ve graduated, Twelve,” he said as the folder burned. “Consider yourself fortunate.”


	5. Bruce - The Rock and The Hole

              “He doesn’t want to be tested, Adam.”

              “But…” Uncle Adam sounded genuinely confused. “He’ll be able to skip another grade. He’s bored to tears, Cher. He finished all the books for his grade after _two weeks_.”

              “He said he didn’t want it, so it’s not happening. Remember what Dr. Drake said about his need to begin asserting himself. Bruce gets to decide what he wants to do.”

              Bruce slouched further against the wall, fingers clenched around his geode. The teachers at his school were pushing again, wanted him to test out of another grade, to be _different._ He didn’t care that he already knew everything they were supposed to be learning, he just wanted them to leave him alone.

              Uncle Adam thought it was great to be smart. He would look at whatever Bruce was building and get big-eyed and ask questions and talk about showing it to people Bruce didn’t know. He didn’t have to deal with none of the kids in class wanting to play with him. He didn’t get shoved when his classmates thought the adults weren’t watching. Being smarter than everyone wasn’t _fun_.

              “Principle Danvers said that his IQ test was off the charts. 157, a district record. Maybe even a state one, he has to check.” Uncle Adam’s tone turned whiney. “Bruce could be in high school, in college. There’s nothing they’ve thrown at him that even slows him down.”

              “Except for the other kids.”

              Bruce rubbed his knuckles against the rough skin of the geode. It wasn’t his fault that they wouldn’t leave him alone. _Smart ass,_ was his official nickname. Sometimes they tried to get him to do their homework. Cheating got so bad in the fifth grade that during tests he had to sit off by himself, well away from the others.

              “That little asshole deserved what he got.”

              “A broken arm, Adam. Bruce broke his arm in two places.”

              “He hit him with a book!”

              Auntie Cheryl said something else, but he stopped listening. What mattered was she wasn’t going to let them try and test him into junior high. He set his geode back on its shelf with the rest of his rock collection and went to wash his hands. The scrapes on his knuckles needed ointment and band aids, and he’d have to think up an excuse for getting hurt, but that wouldn’t be too hard.

              Outside the sky had turned light purple, the brightest stars already out. Most of the other kids were inside, but Uncle Adam and Aunt Cheryl let him stay out until nine if he wanted, so long as he came in to eat dinner and the weather wasn’t too bad. He walked to the Rock, head down and hands in his pockets. The boulder was quartzite, smoothed by time and generations of kids climbing it. Someone had carved shallow steps into one side, so getting up and down wasn’t too hard. Bruce sat down when he reached the top and lay back, letting his legs swing in the air as he looked at the sky.

                Everything had been fine until Principle Danvers took over. He was already identified as gifted and put into the special classes. Then Danvers came and made everyone take IQ tests “to get a more accurate understanding of where they fell on the scale,” was what he told the adults. Bruce knew it was because he wanted more funding. At least, that what Mrs. Cohen had told Ms. Amerson. He took the test, turned it in, and that should have been the end of it. Then Danvers wanted to talk to him, to talk to his aunt and uncle, and everything started falling apart. Sometimes he wanted to shout at them. He didn’t want to be different; he didn’t want to be smart or exceptional. He just wanted to be left alone.

              _“But why?”_ Dr. Drake’s voice intruded on his mood. He was the only adult who listened to Bruce, who cared what he thought. “ _Everything we do has a reason behind it, Bruce. Being able to express that articulately is extremely important. Why don’t you want to be different?”_

              “Because it hurts,” he said to the sky. Being smart hurt and it got other people hurt. He couldn’t say why he thought that, but he did. He knew it. Being smart was dangerous; letting people know he was smart was worse. “It hurts and it’s stupid and I don’t want to be different.”

              “You’re talking to yourself, B.”

              Bruce sat up. Nathan was staring up at him, arms folded.

              “They still talking about me?” he asked.

              Nathan shrugged and climbed up the Rock. “Nope. Mom had to go finish dinner, and Dad’s on the phone. I think he called your shrink.”

              Something white-hot sparked in Bruce’s stomach, but he forced it down. “Dr. Drake said I can make my own decisions,” he repeated firmly.

              Nathan huffed. “Yeah. That’s why you go to bed when they tell you to.”

              Bruce worked his mouth but didn’t respond. Nathan was in high school already, in the eleventh grade. Bruce perked up. “Tell your dad you don’t want to have to watch out for me.” It was genius. Who wanted to deal with school on top of trying to keep his ten year old cousin from getting beat up all day? “It’s a distraction. He’ll listen to you.”

              His cousin gave him a sidelong glance. “No one who knew you were my cousin would bother you, B. Not past the first day.” Nathan was big, already over six feet and two hundred pounds. He eyed Bruce. “They still bother you at school?”

              “No.” Not since he broke James’ arm. They talked about him, called him names, knocked their shoulders into him when he ignored them, but no one tried to hit him again. He spent recess and lunch in his corner of the library, well away from everyone.

              “Good.” Nathan yanked on his hair. “Think you can help me with my Trig?”

              Bruce shrugged. “Sure.”

 

              The days the letters came were the worst.

              Aunt Cheryl tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, but he could always tell. She would flip through the mail and stop on one, fingers clutching the paper until it wrinkled. At first she threw them away, or burned them when she thought no one was looking. Dr. Drake was the one who got her to stop. Now she just put them away in a shoebox in the garage.

              Bruce knew the letters were from his father, and that he wrote because he was in prison in New Mexico and Aunt Cheryl refused to accept his collect phone calls. He knew that was where he had lived until he was five and he moved in with his aunt and uncle. He had a few memories of the place: hot and sand and bright sunlight, but that was most of it. No memories of his father, or his mother. Dr. Drake said he had suffered trauma there, and it wasn’t unusual for people to forget the bad things that happened to them. When he tried to remember everything went green, and he drifted off. Dr. Drake told him it was a sign that the pain was still too much for him to deal with. When he got older it would be different, but for right now it was better to leave it in the past. 

              Today the mail came early, and Bruce went through it before anyone else. He stopped when he got to the one he was looking for, the words New Mexico State Penitentiary in the upper left corner. 

              Bruce dropped his books and headed back outside. He didn’t go to the Rock; too many other kids were already crowded around it. Instead he turned to the tree line and headed in, to what he and Nathan dubbed the Hole. The circle was ten feet across (he’d measured it himself) and looked like a giant had smashed his fist into solid rock. When it rained the Hole filled and it took weeks to dry out. It was late in the summer, though, so it was relatively dry.

              He sat with the letter for what felt like hours. Part of him wanted to take it back to the house and shuffle it into the mail for Aunt Cheryl to put away. _It’s a letter,_ he told himself. _It’s ink and paper. We can look up the chemical composition later, but that’s all it is. It can’t hurt you, and they wouldn’t let him send it to you if there was something in it that could._ Finally, he tore it open.

              The letter was written in block print, small and crimped. It started with _Dear Bruce_ and went on to talk about different things. About a doctor who was working with his father to deal with his anger issues. About Christmas, and the hope that he could convince his aunt and uncle to bring him to New Mexico so they could visit but he would understand if he didn’t. About the books he was reading and how much he wished everything was different. There was nothing in it about why he was in prison, what he had done. In the end it was signed _Brian Banner._

              Bruce didn’t know when he started crying, only that the paper felt wet when he ripped it in two, then again, and again, until the pieces were so small they fluttered between his fingers. It wasn’t enough, though, so he stood up and looked around for something, anything. He picked up a rock and hit the pieces, smashed them, until they were ground into the dirt.

              That was how Nathan found him hours later, face tear-streaked and fingers bloody as he pounded away at the scraps.


	6. Clint - Traveling Wonders

          Running away to join the circus was something kids threatened their parents with, he was told. Actually running away to join the circus was something else.

          He remembered when Barney hid them between two boxes in the back of a boxcar years ago. It was cold, and sandwiched between the thick wood and heavy canvas they were able to collect enough warmth between them to sleep.

          They woke up in Fremont, Virginia to the smallest man either of them had ever seen standing over them. Barney was on his feet before Clint could decide whether he was dreaming or not, shoving him further back into the space between the crates.

          “Hey, Johnny!” The little man shouted, not taking his eyes off of them. “Johnny! We got a couple stowaways!” When he caught sight of Barney’s tensed shoulders and clenched fist he scowled. “Relax, kid. We’re not gonna hurt ya.”

          Johnny turned about to be the exact opposite of the other man; big and broad where the other was short and slight. He’d taken one look at them and ran off.

          “Look, we just wanted someplace to sleep,” Barney explained, giving his brother the ‘grab our stuff and get ready’ signal. Clint leaned down and grabbed the two bags. “Now we’ve stopped, we’ll get out of your way.”

          Clint was sizing up the boxes hemming them in, trying to figure out if he could climb them before anyone else arrived, when, “Who the fuck let kids on my train!?” barked stereo loud in the car.

          They were marched into Jack Carson’s trailer through a bizarre collection of brightly colored trailers and cages and sat in front of his desk. The inside was less colorful than the outside. The walls were white, covered with pictures and pieces of cloth and old playbills. It felt so much like being called before one of the Fathers at the orphanage that Clint broke out in a cold sweat. Carson sat down and poured them each a glass of water.

          “Now,” he said, taking in their dirty clothes and gaunt faces. “Give me a good reason not to call the fuzz and have you hauled back wherever you came from.”

          Clint didn’t know what to say, but Barney had gotten good at speaking for both of them over the years. They were Joshua and George Brighton, runaways from an orphanage in Nebraska. One of the Father’s had a thing for little boys, and he’d saved Clint from being touched (Barney had drilled him in the story, complete with where to point if anyone asked). They’d run away, and kept running after that.

          Carson’s face went from flustered, to amused, to murderous as his brother spoke, hand clenching around the edge of his cane. Finally, Barney got to the end with them slipping through the loading yard in Hampton and climbing into an open car. “Listen,” he said, trying to draw up every inch of height he had. “We’re sorry for crashing in your car. Just forget you saw us and we’ll get lost. We’re good at that.”

          Carson’s eyes went to Clint at that, and he focused on making himself as small as possible.

          The man ran a mahogany colored hand over his face. “God-damn it,” he muttered, reaching into his desk and pulling out a bottle of Jim Bean. He poured half a glass for himself, thought about it, and poured a little in each of their glasses. He knocked his back with a grimace. “When’s the last time either of you ate?” He asked finally. “And I don’t mean out of a dumpster or something you found on the street. I’m talking actual, hot food.”

          Barney’s mouth opened on the first question, and then closed tight. Clint’s stomach, reminded that they hadn’t had much of anything for the past week (not since the Warriors ran them off their little piece of turf) chose that moment to gurgle.

          “That’s what I thought.” He stood and walked to the door of his trailer. “When you’ve had something to eat, you can tell me your real names, and what really happened. Jackie!” He yelled. “Go get me Sharon and Darla!”

          Less than an hour later they had new clothes that didn’t fit but were cleaner than anything he’d had in at least a year. They were given barbeque and bread and bundled into a Winnebago shared by The Magnificent Sharon and Darla, twin contortionists.

  

          Living in a circus was nothing like Clint would have imagined. It was fun, and for the first time since the orphanage there were kids he didn’t have to compete with for food or begging spots. When they were shuffled into a small tent the next morning and introduced to the other kids (almost all of them the kids of the performers, except for Nancy, who was spending time with her older sister) they got death glares until Barney showed off his Three Card Monte skills. 

          Seeing clowns walking around in flannel and torn jeans stripped the magic away fast, almost as fast as having to walk downwind of the elephant tent. Then there was the work. If they weren’t tearing down, they were putting up, and he and Barney weren’t excused from helping because they were new arrivals. Barney was bigger, sixteen and putting on muscle fast so he became a roustabout full time, tearing down tents and repairing stages and equipment. After getting into a fight with two night riders in Tucson Clint found himself confined to the yard working with the animals. Not as a slanger, but cleaning up cages while they were exercised and worked by their handlers in the arena. 

          Personally, he would have preferred a hammer to shoveling shit.

          He liked the cats, though. Molly and Amber, two white tigers that everyone had pitched in to purchase and were the ‘official’ stars of the circus. Bruno, an old lion with only half his teeth that roared on command and Carson refused to part with. Sara, Silver, and Nucky, two leopards and an ocelot, all with equally bad tempers. They were beautiful, and sleek, and Clint wished someone would teach them to use a damn litter box because really, they shit anywhere.

          When he wasn’t cleaning out cages Carson had them doing school work. “There’s no fool like an old fool,” he muttered the first time Barney complained about having to get his GED. “Now, get in there (meaning the small school tent ran by Amanda and Paul) or get packing.”

          It wasn’t so much running away to join the circus as it was running away and landing in one, but it still counted in Clint’s mind.

          “Right foot forward. Breathe…. Now release!”

          The arrow left his bow with a whisper of sound, sharpened point cutting through air and leaving only the slight “whap” of the bow string slapping against the lower limb in its wake.

          Clint ran to the target twenty yards away and pulled the arrow. When he brought it back to his teacher Buck examined it carefully.

          “Not bad,” he said, handing the arrow back, wiping his hand on a handkerchief.

          Clint beamed and stripped the cherry off the arrow shaft and wiped it down before returning it to the quiver on his hip.

          “We still have to work on your speed,” Buck told him. “But if Duquesne wants you to do any slow shots you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.”

          “Really?”

          “No. I’m lying because I wanted to see that stupid look on your face. Yes, really kid.” Buck pulled out his flask and took a drink. “You still need a stage name. We can’t call you Clint.” He slid the flask into his pocket, picked up his bow, and fired three shot in quick succession. Each shaft splitting the one before on the target.

          “Show off,” Clint muttered into his bow.

          Buck slapped him on the back of his head. Clint rolled with it, sliding forward into a handstand and tumbling until he was well out of reach.

          “Martha’s been off her tits crying about how she should have picked you up first,” Buck said. “We’re done for the night. Go bother your brother or Jack.”

          Clint mocked saluted and left their small practice range.

          Inside the yard it was quiet. They had a long haul to Deluth in the mornings, and no one wanted to lose a minute of sleep. Summer was great for Carson’s: more kids, more money, and later hours. It also meant earlier mornings to get everything ready. 

          “Jack!” Clint burst into his mentor’s trailer, mindful that there was no wreath on the handle (he’d gotten an eyeful like that once, and hadn’t been able to look Darla in the face for a week). “Jack!”

          The trailer was empty, and he frowned. Jack usually went from the tent to his trailer, with only a stop between for food. The truck wasn’t hitched, but it was next to it, so he couldn’t have gone far.

          Clint wandered through the yard. Most of the flood lights were turned off and the path was lit by Christmas lights. Billy and Sal were in the med-tent like most nights, passing an unmarked bottle back and forth between them before pouring some of it on a bleeding wound on Lottie’s ankle. When Sal noticed Clint watching he shrugged. “Stake bit,” he said while Lottie hissed.

          “Again?”

          “Not everyone has night vision like you, kid,” Billy answered, poking at the wound.

          He leaned in. That made three times that week, and Lottie’s ankle was already torn up from the other two. The man wouldn’t last as their cottoner that rate. “Maybe you should wrap your ankles,” he suggested.

          “Maybe you should shut up,” Lottie shot back, and then shouted when Billy slapped a bandage on. 

          “You guys seen Jack? Buck said I was ready for a longer act.”

          “Did he now?” Sal handed Billy the tape.

          “Yep.”

          Sal gestured into the darkness. “Jack said he wanted to talk to Andy about something.”

          “Thanks!” Clint took off, deftly jumping over a stake and earning swears from Lottie. He had good eyes; it wasn’t his fault the older man didn’t.

          The paymaster’s trailer was where it usually was, in the darkest corner of the yard, upwind of the cages. It was lit, so Clint knocked. “Andy?” he called.

          The door opened and he was jerked inside.

          “Shut up,” Jack hissed, pushing him against the closed door, his breath sharp with whiskey. When Clint didn’t move he went to the bed and knelt down.

          “Jack?”

          “Just a second.” The man tucked a wad of bills into his pocket. “You’re supposed to be with Buck.”

          “He said we were done.” Clint looked Jack up and down. His hands were shaking, his eyes red and glassy. “What’s wrong?”

          “Just owe some people, spud. Got to make good before we pull up stakes.” He pushed Clint out of the way.

          Clint followed him out. “You’re stealing? From Andy? He-“

          “Wouldn’t do a goddamn thing,” Jack rode over him, swaying as he went down the steps. “Now shut up.”

          Clint watched him go, mind whirling. Andy always gave him a few dollars extra, especially when his pants started getting too tight, or his shoes pinched. He did the same for everyone when money was good. “I can’t let you do that,” Clint’s voice shook.

          Jack stopped. “What did you say, you little shit?” he asked, not turning around.

          Clint backed up, hand fumbling at his quiver. “Put it back, Jack,” he said, raising his bow with shaking hands.

          He turned around, and for the first time Clint really thought about how much bigger he was. “You gonna shoot me, Clint?” Jack took a step forward.

          “Stop.” He knocked the arrow, aiming low. _You never aim at anyone,_ that was Buck’s first rule. _Not unless you mean to shoot them._

          Jack took another step towards him and Clint loosed, the arrow sticking into the dirt at Jack’s feet. He was trying to pull another arrow when Jack slammed into him, knocking him to the ground, scattering his arrows.

          Clint put his arms up, but Jack was faster, punching him hard enough to make his ears ring and his vision white. A knee landed in his chest, robbing him of air and the blows kept coming; on his face, his shoulders, his stomach. Jack was yelling at him, cursing. He tried to scream and hands wrapped around his neck.

          “Hey!” the words sounded far away. “Hey! Hey rube! Hey rube!”

          Then Jack was off him, footsteps running to the edge of the yard. Clint rolled onto his stomach, tried to force himself to breathe in. He saw Lottie limping towards him, followed by Billy and Sal and what looked like Buck in his underwear. 

          By the time they reached him he was unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> "Buck" is Buck Chisholm, aka Trickshot, the one who taught Clint how to shoot.
> 
> "Jack" is Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman and one of the people who trained Clint how to handle bladed weapons. He was Clint's mentor in the comics until Clint tried to stop him from robbing the circus. Jacque beat Clint and left him for dead.
> 
> The circus is Carson's Circus of Traveling Wonders and was where Clint and Barney ended up after running away from the orphanage in the comics. This chapter was heavy on circus cant, so here are the translations. Most were taken from [ Here ](http://www.goodmagic.com/carny/c_a.htm)
> 
> fuzz - police  
> elephant tent - not really a tent, but the largest of cages that housed the elephants. don't know why they call it a tent either  
> roustabout - general laborer. Takes down and puts up tents, stages, etc.  
> night rider - people from a competing circus who put up their own flyers by day and tear down the flyers for another circus at night. These people are apparently dicks  
> the yard (or back yard) - the closed off area away from the main circus where the performers and workers live. Strictly circus folk only.  
> slanger - big cat trainers  
> arena - large cage where big cats perform  
> long haul - long journey between venues  
> stake bit - ankle/calve wounds caused by stumbling over stakes in the dark. Stake heads can get razor sharp from being pounded by mallets for years, and can cut through jeans and skin very easily (grandma called them 'missouri stitches'. no explanation)  
> cottoner - cotton candy vendor (this ones from my grandma ^_^)  
> hey, rube! - a fight has broken out between a circus worker and a townsperson. Used as a call to arms. I'm assuming Lottie couldn't really see what was happening, and assumed that a townsperson was attacking one of their own.
> 
>  
> 
> The characters you don't recognize are taken from my grandmother's stories. She wasn't a circus performer (sadly), but she did live on a farm where two circuses would winter in the 1930s, so I'm sure a lot is outdated. If there is someone out there with working knowledge of a circus and you see something that just makes your teeth clench, let me know and I'll correct it.


End file.
